


Is Lipstick Important To You, Dean?

by crowleyshouseplant (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Lipstick & Lip Gloss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:03:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crowleyshouseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>missing scene from "Survival of the Fittest"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is Lipstick Important To You, Dean?

_How important is lipstick to you, Dean?_

Dean huffs, rolls his eyes and his shoulders until they pop and Sam glances up at him, eyes narrow and accusing, head tilted at the angle for max why are you the way you are Dean glare. “I’m taking a shower.”

Castiel glances his head up from where he’s washing the dishes, eyes unblinking. “You should take a bath. With Epsom salts and lilacs. Very relaxing. Good for the muscles.”

As if he doesn’t already know, so he just grunts in response, grabs his duffel with his clothes and soap and stuff, slams the door shut, and clicks the lock hard. He turns the shower on, but keeps it on cold so he won’t waste the hot water while they think he’s taking his sweet time.

Looking at the door, at the space of light between the crack to make sure nobody’s standing outside, nobody’s listening, Dean shoves his clothes to the side, reaches in deep till his knuckles scrape the bottom of the bag and drags out a ziplock bag. In it is a pair of satiny pink panties, mascara, green and grey shades of eyeshadow, liner, and lipstick.

He licks his lips, then wipes them dry with his wrist because goddamnit Dean, that is not proper prep procedure for lipstick applying.

Actually, he isn’t sure, exactly, how to do it but there’s nothing that practice won’t make perfect. He squints into the mirror, unscrews the cap of his lipstick until a wedge of _ruby pomegranate_ slides up, and he drags it over his lips, until they’re red, until they’re stained red, and he stares at himself in the mirror, at his red-red lips, at the smear on his teeth.

He rubs his thumb over the licks of red on his tooth, wipes it clean. Takes a scrap of toilet paper like he had seen Mom take Kleenex, folds it in half, and blots, leaving a red kiss against the white.

He drops it in the toilet, flushes, looks once more in the mirror, his fingers shadowing the shape of his lips. Purse. Smile.

Blue steel in the mirror with your red red lips, Dean.

He flinches away, takes his shirt off and turns the water to steaming hot, and scrubs himself clean, until steam clouds the mirror and you can’t see shit. Gets out, buries everything underneath his dirty underwear, and leaves the batrhoom – rubbing his hand towel through his hair as he asks Sam how they’re doing on the leviathan front.

He passes by Castiel, who looks at him, looks him in the eye before dropping his gaze like he sometimes does and fuck Dean catches himself following the way his throat works up and down, at the way his tongue slips between his lips, like he’s tasting each word before he actually says them, and his own breath catches between his teeth when Cas says, “Pomegrantes.”

“What?” Dean says, too fast he could just kick himself.

And Castiel is smiling in that way, that small, secret way like he had once on a park bench with an apocalypse on the horizon.

Dean puts his palm over his mouth because didn’t the shower take care of it, are there still bits of red to betray him, but Castiel is just looking at his eyes now. Then he lets out a small little note of something that Dean doesn’t know the meaning of before turning back to the dishes. “They would understand, Dean,” he says over the running water, over the scrape of stiff green sponge over a plate. “So do I.”


End file.
